Every Tuesday we share a club sandwich — no mayo, no fries, extra salad — at a restaurant owned by Iranian emigres, usually staffed by Latin Americans, occasionally an Asian or Eritrean. When we sat down, “Stay” was on the sound system, followed by “Don’t Be Cruel” and “Speedo.” “We may be the only people in here who were alive when these songs were popular.” I scanned the customers more carefully. “In fact, we may be the only ones alive within 30 years of that.”

“Bye Bye Love” was playing when a grey haired woman using a walker entered. “She should be up and dancing in a minute,” I said.

“Probably she heard it a block away,” Adele said, “and the music drew her.”

Our server said she had chosen the station. My question surprised her. “It’s very popular?” she said. “People in Columbia love it.”

“This was the music of our teenage years,” Adele said.

“Would you like a mimosa?” the server said.

Wait till they hear the Beatles, I thought.